


The Cowardly Mule, the Brave Engineer & the Big Black Dog

by LateStarter58



Category: Cranford - All Media Types
Genre: Black Shuck, F/M, Folklore, Halloween, Suffolk traditional tale, letter home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 21:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17169587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: William Buxton writes home to his pregnant wife with a tale of horror from his travels





	The Cowardly Mule, the Brave Engineer & the Big Black Dog

**Author's Note:**

> A little Halloween story inspired by the Suffolk story of Black Shuck, a terrifying giant hellhound that frightens travellers from time to time. I am a Suffolk gal and have heard the stories all my life. I thought I'd try my hand at a bit of MR James-style writing.

The Cowardly Mule, the Brave Engineer & the Big Black Dog

 

My darling Peggy

I am sure you will believe me turned quite mad, and indeed it is possible that is true, as to be so far from you for so long is a terrible ordeal for one who loves you so much. But the tale I have to relate is all true, I promise you that, and I hope not too frightening for one in your delicate condition, my dearest wife.

My arrival here in this beautiful part of the country was uneventful. We began our work upstream of the Orwell crossing in Ipswich, taking up the baton from those who had gone before, and indeed, much has been achieved already in the navigation from the Great Capital City northwards, through the Essex lowlands and into the wolds. We made good progress, my young apprentice and I, finding our way through the fields and staying in a few small inns in pleasant enough villages such as Westerfield, some four miles to the north of Ipswich. From there we continued on northwards, to Woodbridge where yet another river, this time the Deben, barred the way (I fear that this will be a feature of this task; there are many waterways in this land, and much of the farmland is wet for part or all of the year). But I believe we have a workable route for the permanent way, and soon all of East Suffolk will know the benefit of the railway.

The Suffolk people are quite reserved, as I was warned, and the landlord of the inn where I am now billeted is a gruff chap, his tiny wife barely speaks at all and the children scurry away at the sight of me. I do not think I present too fearful a prospect, even when dusty (or more usually muddy) from a day’s surveying, and yet I seem to terrify the poor young creatures! I hope I will appear less frightful to our own offspring, my darling.

The land is sometimes gently rolling, but mostly quite flat, unlike the hills and moors of our native land, darling Peggy; the challenge for the railway here will be to build up embankments and culverts against the marshy ground and possible flooding in winter, I fear. Even now, in the autumn, it is wet underfoot and the path from the route we are surveying back to the inn often entails some wading by our long-suffering horses and the pack mules. The most direct way from the place where Edgar and I have been working at these past few days is across the heath to the village of Westleton, back to the Crown and its welcoming fire and dry rooms (if not particularly warm-hearted host), and it was while crossing the dark and lonely expanse of that bare place that the first of my unsettling experiences occurred.

Now, my dearest one, you know that your William is not easily afeared. I am a man of science; a rational creature, not given to superstition and suchlike. So, when I tell you that I was sent into a fit of shivering and goose pimples by what happened a week ago, then you will guess that it was a real and rather frightening thing that I saw and heard. But now I come to write this letter, I am no longer so sure that I actually saw anything at all, that first night. I did hear something, of that I am most certain.

It had been a long, hard day, with many difficulties, but not extraordinarily so. I had sent young Edgar ahead of me because he was clearly unwell, with all the signs of an oncoming chill. Not wanting him to become seriously ill, I told him to get into the dry and have a hot meal, and remained behind to complete the final measurements for that stretch in the Yoxford area. It was barely an hour later that I set off after him, loading the theodolite onto dear Walter’s back (he is the most accommodating and patient of mules, I must say; I have become quite fond of him) and climbing aboard Captain for the ride back to shelter. It was not raining, but it was grey and overcast, night was falling, and the air was damp with the promise of mist to come.

All was quiet, save the hooting of owls and the rustling of the leaves, dry and brown on the few meagre trees that dot the scrubby waste. Mostly there is gorse (yes, it makes my heart tingle to recall it, my dearest one) and heather, still purple in places, even this late in the year. I was tired, and I admit I may have been dozy with sleep, when suddenly my arm was jerked back because Walter had stopped dead in his tracks. At first, I was simply irritated, and pulled harder in an attempt to get the stubborn creature to move, but when he whinnied softly in fear I turned to look at him.

His eyes were wide, the whites showing. He was shaking, too. I looked around but saw nothing in the gathering gloom but shadows. And then I heard it, far off but unmistakable: the growling of a dog. A large dog, by the sound of it, and getting closer. Captain began to twitch, snickering and bouncing on his hooves as if he wished to bolt. I patted his neck and spoke to calm him: “Steady, lad, steady…”

But it was no good: by this time I was as spooked as they were. The dog, or wolf (for that was what it sounded like to my ears by this time, with two terrified equine companions and my own heart beating at a speed I might not have thought possible) was getting closer. Suddenly, Captain’s nerve broke and he took off at a full gallop. I dropped the lead rein but Walter was alongside us regardless, eyes bulging, spittle flying. My darling, I would prefer that you imagine your husband as the epitome of manhood: a brave, stoic hero, facing his fears and overcoming them. Sadly, I cannot lie. I was clinging to Captain’s neck and praying he could outrun whatever was at our heels. I could hear its panting breaths, its growling, its strange clumping gait…

As we reached the edge of the village, where the Heath gives way to what passes for civilisation in such a pastoral and peaceful place, I realised that the horses had slowed down and seemed calmer, and the sound of the dog, or whatever it was, had gone. I do not think that I recovered quite so rapidly, as when I entered the Crown Mr. Pears asked me if I had seen a ghost. I said nothing, but on retiring, I saw my own reflection in the looking-glass; my hair was in even more disarray than normal and my eyes were wide and a little wild.

I told no one of my experience, assuming it was a wild dog or a wolf (a few remain, perhaps, in such a desolate part) and I continued with my work, not wishing to recount my cowardly behaviour. Edgar seemed to shake off his chill, such being the advantages of youth. When he is an old married man he might not find life so carefree (I jest, of course, my dearest Peggy. My arms ache to hold you, my eyes ache to see you. I pray daily that I will be able to return before the date of your confinement). I might have dismissed the incident from my mind entirely, had it not been for what happened two nights after, as we sat down to our meal in the dining-room at the Crown Inn.

The place where we ate was divided from the bar by a simple wooden partition which did no more than provide some small privacy to the guests; we could hear (and smell, I might add) all that occurred with the clientele who frequent the alehouse most evenings. A jolly crew of fellows, it must be said, villagers, farm-labourers for the most part, if rather rough, as one might expect in a public house. Edgar and I were both rather tired and hence were not conversing as we downed our basic fare, so it was impossible for me not to eavesdrop on what was being said on just the other side of the thin wooden wall. And my ears pricked when it became clear that the voice,  that of an old man by its timbre and reedy sound, was discussing the very creature that had terrorised me just two nights earlier!

“Yars,” he said, in the local patois, which sounds so strange to one such as me, used to the flat Northern vowels of Lancashire, “ ‘at sown’ as ‘ough ol’ Shuck ha’ bin abou’ agin.”

Another, younger man chipped in. “As roight, Ernie. A few peeple ha seen him lately, Oi reckon, and besoides, moi dogs set off a-hollerin’ las’ noight. I ‘urd ‘im growlin’, jus’ by moi door, though. ‘At were ‘im, Oim sure.”

My expression must have given me away as Edgar suddenly asked me, “Are you quite well, Mr Buxton?”, to which I of course responded that I was, and I subsequently made a great effort to engage him in a normal conversation about our work and the weather. But after he had retired, I made my way into the bar and endeavoured to find out more. By judicious questioning, I was able to ascertain a few bare facts, if you can call them that: there is a local legend of an outsize, even giant black dog, known as Black Shuck, which is said to appear on occasion to travellers (who are usually all alone, is that not always the way with such tales?) and terrorize them. It seems that the first known story relates to an appearance in a church in the town of Bungay, wherein the tower collapsed, killing some of the citizenry, (although another man insisted that the deaths occurred in Blythborough, which is far closer to here, and that you can see the claw marks on the church door to this day), but that since then, although none has died, many have been scared out of their wits, your loving husband among them.

I went to my bed that night determined to forget about this nonsense. But yet, there was no denying that the mule had been scared, then dear Captain too, and he is not a horse given to flight at the slightest thing. He has seen me through all kinds of bad weather and past the loudest of machinery without a hint of fear, and yet he bolted at this, whatever it was. Could it be, perhaps, a feral dog of some gigantic breed? Could there be a pack of them, living in comparative hiding in the uninhabited wasteland of Westleton Heath and other empty parts of East Anglia? Surely that is not beyond imagination? Yes, my darling, you know me well enough. Your William was trying to solve the mystery by science and rationality, because I had experienced something real. A real creature, not of the imagination. Something that made noises that terrified my mule and my horse (and me, but we will not mention that again, especially not to my child or indeed any other person).

My interest piqued, I would have loved to travel to Ipswich or Norwich, to a library or the Cathedral to further my study, but I was in the area for my work, not to indulge my love of folklore! So, back to the grindstone it was for your poor William, tramping through wet fields and marshy wetlands, surveying and measuring, taking the lengths and breadths needed to prepare for the builders to come. And every evening, I made sure not to cross the Heath alone, and to watch the eyes of both Walter and Captain; neither showed the slightest fear, even when a pheasant flew up just a few feet away.

All was well, and I was certain that I would escape any further encounters with the legendary hound of hell (if you excuse the word, my dearest one), because after one more day we were due to move onwards, north to the town of Beccles and yet another river, this time the Waveney. But then, when we returned from work for our penultimate night at this place, Edgar received word from home that his father was gravely ill. Of course, I despatched him forthwith to Chesterfield. The journey is a long one; I only hope he was able to arrive in good time and that he found his father much improved. But for my part, I cannot lie, I felt deeply vulnerable. Now I had one more night, alone at the Westleton Crown. One more night wherein I had to cross the Heath, and once more all alone.

Determined to avoid Black Shuck, I worked like a demon that morning so that I might leave long before dark began to fall. But as I sat under a tree eating my luncheon I suddenly felt how ridiculous it was to be afeard of a creature that existed in the tales told by old men in their cups; of a shadow seen by little girls in the twilight; of a silly tale, twisted and embroidered over centuries. I determined to do my work as normal and return to Westleton across the Heath as I would if I knew nothing of this nonsensical story.

An admirable ambition, I am sure you are thinking as you read this, my dearest heart. And I adhered to it, quite vehemently and entirely up until the very moment that I saw the great black shadow cross the path in the gloaming ahead of me and pause.

The growl was soft at first; so quiet I barely heard it, and only the ripple of fear up Captain’s back alerted me to the sound. His soft whinny and the way he shivered made me cold. I looked to my left to see how Walter fared, only to find him gone. He must have taken off and found another route back because I discovered him later, at the inn, stuffing himself with hay. My head felt reluctant to turn back, but somehow it did, and there it was, ahead of us, on the track. A great beast of a dog, so black it looked more like a shadow than an animal, more of an absence of light than a colour. Only its eyes had life; they glowed, yellow in the sunset.

I was frozen. My horse did not want to turn its back, the monster blocked our path ahead, and to either side, escape was prevented by thickets of gorse and low scrub. Trapped, then. Is this how it ends, I asked myself? My life, so full of promise, snuffed out, finished by a hellhound on a Suffolk heath? The growling became louder and I felt my bowels turn to water. I may have made a noise; in all frankness, my dearest, I have little recollection beyond my total terror. Then Shuck took a few steps closer and I got my first proper view in the moonlight.

It was not a monster at all; it was a large, rather unkempt dog, it is true, but no monster. And behind _her,_ it now became apparent, were several (I think seven or eight, it was hard to count as they were never still) large-pawed and ungainly pups. On seeing this, and you know how I feel about dogs, my darling, I found myself dismounting and at once I was surrounded and then covered in a mountain of black puppies, all snuffling and licking and searching for affection.

I glanced up at the dam: she kept her distance, as befits a feral dog with no reason to trust man. Her offspring had no such compunction, and being of such great size, they soon had me upon my back and laughing, rolling in the mud and dust of the pathway. I caught Captain’s eye; I swear that he smiled and looked away in disgust. I do not think he shares my unalloyed love of dogs. I managed to free myself, and standing, I searched out from my saddlebags what was remaining of my picnic luncheon: a scrap of bread and some dried sausage, which I shared between the youngsters, saving the largest piece for their mother. She took a cautious step in my direction, but would not take it from my hand. I put it as close to her as she would allow, then withdrew. When she considered I was far enough away, she snaffled it up, chewing rapidly. I gave the pups one more caress then I watched as they scampered off at the heels of the great bitch, away into the darkness. I remounted Captain and we continued our journey, finding Walter safe and sound, as I said.

So, there is my strange tale, my darling Peggy. I wonder how many generations of this race have lived this way, hiding in the shadows, scaring off humans when necessary? Many, judging from the folklore, and good for them, if they can survive and thrive. I know I can trust you to keep the secret as I will. I feel proud that she felt I was trustworthy enough to show her pups to. Perhaps even a hellhound knows a dog-lover when she sees one.

My dearest wish, darling Peggy, is that this letter finds you as it leaves me: in good health and anxious for the day when we can be together again. Let us pray that it will be soon.

Your ever-faithful William


End file.
